


In The Cold Of The Night

by TaraTheMeerkat



Series: In The Cold Of The Night [2]
Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Hhhhh HANDS, I have no good explanation for why this exists but now it does so you're welcome, I'M A SHAM, Internalized Homophobia, Just generally Fluff, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, inspired by a surprisingly filthy dream I had, mild hand kink I guess, this is just my usual fluff and catholic guilt but with handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26223559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: “Flambeau,” Father Brown’s brain was still struggling to catch up with everything that had happened over the past few days, let alone with the fact that Hercule Flambeau was currently inches away from him, unbuttoning his shirt. “Flambeau, you have a wife.”Flambeau gave a grin and a roguish wink. “I won’t tell her if you won’t, Father,” he quipped blithely.(Basically just a shameless smutty scene inserted into the middle of The Two Deaths of Hercule Flambeau. It's what they deserve.)
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Series: In The Cold Of The Night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176500
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	In The Cold Of The Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a weird dream I had, and the thought process behind it is basically just "what if The Two Deaths of Hercule Flambeau where everything's the same but there's a sex scene in the middle?" and then I wrote it, and now it exists, I really have no further explanation to give.

In his bleak, uncomfortable room in the bishop’s palace, Father Brown tossed and turned, restlessly. It wasn’t just the rock hard mattress or the freezing cold that kept him awake, although those didn’t help. He couldn’t stop _thinking._ Something was wrong. He was missing something, something vital. Something the bishop had said-

“He would need the combination.” He sat bolt upright in bed. Flambeau was here, in the building, somewhere-

“Bravo, Father,” said a familiar smooth voice, from the corner of the largely empty room. “I knew you’d catch up eventually.”

The priest’s head snapped around. He fumbled to put on his glasses to see Hercule Flambeau, leaning casually against the cold stone wall, smirking slightly, dressed in a guard’s uniform. _It suits him,_ his brain noted, unhelpfully. _Makes him look even more suave and handsome than usual._

He made a wise decision to ignore the increasingly unhelpful little voice in his head and focus on more pressing matters.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked, as calmly and casually as if they were chatting outside a corner shop, as though this whole situation were perfectly normal. He supposed perhaps it was, for them.

“Long enough,” said Flambeau, equally as casually, in the tone of voice anyone else might use to remark upon the weather. “Half an hour perhaps? I lost track of time, watching you was rather…” A smile that was difficult to read tugged at the corners of the thief’s mouth. “Entertaining, shall we say.”

Father Brown blinked as he processed this new information. “You’ve been watching me sleep for at least half an hour?!” It never failed to shock him just how much the thief _could_ still shock him. It really was an art form in its own right.

“Au contraire, Father,” Flambeau said smoothly, tugging off his white gloves and tossing them into a corner of the room as he paced towards the mildly confused clergyman. “I’ve been watching you _not_ sleep.” He sat down on the edge of the narrow, rickety bed, removed his hat, and placed it beside the Father’s, before turning to look Father Brown in the eye once more, with a faint quirk of an eyebrow. “Somewhat unsurprising, considering how cold it is in here, not to mention the absolute _state_ of this mattress. And they have the nerve to call this a palace? I’ve slept in prison cells more habitable.”

Father Brown opened his mouth to argue, to defend the bishop and his truly generous hospitality, but any protests died in his throat when he was taken completely off guard by Hercule Flambeau gently, _ever so_ gently taking both of his hands in his own.

“See?” Flambeau murmured softly, staring at their entwined hands, seemingly unable to reach Father Brown’s confused and beseeching gaze. “Your hands are like ice, Father. Your church needs to take better care of you. Where would we all be if your fingers fell off due to frostbite? You wouldn’t be able to pick locks _or_ write sermons, and then what use would you be, hm?”

Father brown smiled in amusement despite himself. “Technically, Flambeau,” he said, desperate to regain some level of control over this conversation. “This isn’t _my_ church. Blame the Anglicans, if you must.”

A pause, and then Flambeau laughed, a soft but genuine laugh that made Father Brown’s heart give a strange little flutter that he didn’t like to dwell on. The thief then proceeded to gently massage the priest’s fingers, still not lifting his head to meet the older man’s gaze.

“What are you doing?” Father Brown’s tone was light; the sensation was far from unpleasant after all, and the question came from a place of curiosity rather than indignation.

“Trying to warm you up. I thought that much was obvious.” Although his tone was snide and dismissive, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and wrinkled the corners of his eyes, and Father Brown couldn’t help but watch enraptured as soft, slim fingers softly massaged his own with all the same care they would give to a rare diamond, or a stolen painting.

The thought made a small part of his brain come back to its senses, and remember what it was they were doing in this awful room in the first place. “Don’t you have a crown to be stealing?” He did his best to make his tone sound stern and disapproving, but somehow couldn’t stop warmth and gentle fondness from seeming into it.

Flambeau gave another soft chuckle. “All in good time, Father. You are a more than worthy distraction.” He lifted his head then, and finally met Father Brown’s gaze. The sudden intensity and intimacy of the eye contact made the priest gasp involuntarily, and Flambeau looked at him, intently, as though looking at him properly for the first time since entering the room. He stared deeply into the Father’s eyes, brows ever so slightly furrowed, lips ever so slightly parted, and then broke away, letting go of the Father’s hands.

Father Brown did his best to bury his dismay, hoping against hope that Flambeau hadn’t somehow seen through him, seen his most sinful of thoughts, and wasn’t now leaving because of them. Gradually, his brain caught to the fact that, wonder of wonders, Flambeau _wasn’t_ leaving. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed. He was… unbuttoning his jacket?

“What are you-”

“I told you.” Flambeau looked at up, face unreadable, as he untucked his own shirt. “I’m warming you up.”

In one swift move, Flambeau took Father Brown’s hands in his own once more, and, with only the briefest of hesitations, pulled the hands under his shirt. Father Brown gasped, and, as though in a dream, laid his hands flat against the smooth, warm, bare skin he found underneath. It was Flambeau’s turn to give a gasp and an involuntary shiver that Father Brown told himself was only due to the coldness of his hands, despite the pink blush that was spreading across his thief’s cheeks.

 _When did I start thinking of him as ‘my thief’?_ he thought. _Not that it matters. He’s not mine. He’s hers, isn’t he?_

He swallowed, trying to bury those thoughts. Jealousy was a nasty, bitter, hollow emotion that he, as a man of God, was supposed to be above. As was lust. He knew this. His body, however, had other ideas. As though of their own accord, his hands crept further up. Flambeau’s breath hitched almost undetectably, and as the priest’s hands gently caressed his chest, fingertips softly running through chest hair, Father Brown could feel the thief’s heart pounding under his palm. Slowly, as though in a dream, he brushed his fingertips over a nipple.

Flambeau gasped aloud then, a shuddering gasp. “Oh, _Father,_ ” he breathed, more to himself than anything, his voice rugged, his cheeks flushed. “The things you could do with those hands. Sinful things.”

Father Brown felt his own cheeks flush, and was reminded of the inherent _wrongness_ of this whole situation. To be committing such a multitude of sins both physical and spiritual at all once was one thing, but to commit them in a house of God, and to consider committing more like this, was… Was…

That train of thought escaped him, dissipating like mist, as he looked up to see Flambeau, shirt rumbled and hiked up with Father Brown’s hands still beneath it, gazing at him intently through heavy-lidded eyes, face pink, biting his lip, a noticeable bulge in his trousers.

Father Brown closed his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the image. _Oh Lord,_ he thought. _Why must you torment me so?_

He supposed his heart and his brain must have both skipped a beat, because the next thing he knew he was being kissed. Flambeau’s arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders, fingers digging in sharply in a way that would be painful if it wasn’t a strangely comforting reminder of their owner’s presence, lips pressed hard against his with a strange desperation. The lips broke away from his own and moved to his ear, whispering earnestly, feverishly into it.

“You want this too, don’t you, Father? I’ve seen you. I’ve _seen_ you, _watching_ me.”

A wave, no, a veritable _tsunami_ of thoughts and emotions crashed over the priest. _He **knows**. He’s seen. He sees right through me, of course he does, _he thought, miserably, guiltily. _Of course I spend all these years burying these feelings, concealing them, living a perfectly happy and celibate life, only for Hercule Flambeau to waltz into my life, bring all these long-forgotten thoughts and longings to the surface, and then **see right through me.**_ Was this some kind of test? A punishment? _I try to lead him to redemption, so he reminds me of my own sins, is that it?_ Something else Flambeau had said suddenly registered. _“You want this too, don’t you?” …Too? He… **wants** me? _

“Father,” Flambeau’s voice was almost unnervingly soft, as he brought him back to reality, gently cupping the Father’s face in one hand, tilting it to face him, softly stroking his cheek with one thumb. A gentle, almost affectionate smile flickered across his lips. “Father, you’re thinking too loud. It’s alright. It’s alright to want this.”

He leaned close, lips parted, but then hesitated, their mouths only a breath apart, the briefest look of doubt, _fear,_ flickering across his face. “Father?” he said, a sudden and strange vulnerability to his voice. “Father, please. I need an answer to my question.”

 _Question?_ It was extraordinarily hard to focus when Flambeau occupied this many of his senses. He blinked and swallowed, heavily. _Oh, yes. “You want this too, don’t you?”_

“Yes,” he said, simply. There didn’t seem anything else to say.

A grin spread across Flambeau’s face and his shoulders relaxed in visible relief, as he finally closed the gap and kissed Father Brown once more, clumsily but with great enthusiasm. “I’m so glad to hear you say that,” he murmured between kisses, smile obvious in his voice. “Or this would be rather awkward for me.”

In a dazed state, Father Brown attempted to wrap his arms around his thief ( _Not mine,_ he told himself sternly, although the stern voice in his head was far less convincing when there were nimble fingers tugging at his hair and a strange tongue in his mouth) in an effort to just hold him as close as possible, but to little success, as his arms were still entangled in Flambeau’s shirt.

With a groan of frustration, Flambeau broke away, shrugged his jacket unceremoniously onto the floor, and started making light work of his now crumpled shirt.

“Flambeau,” Father Brown’s brain was still struggling to catch up with everything that had happened over the past few days, let alone with the fact that Hercule Flambeau was currently inches away from him, unbuttoning his shirt. “Flambeau, you have a _wife_.”

Flambeau gave a grin and a roguish wink. “I won’t tell her if you won’t, Father,” he quipped blithely.

 _“Flambeau.”_ His attempt at a stern and disapproving tone was somewhat undermined by the sharp intake of breath he took at the sight of Flambeau shirtless. He couldn’t help but stare as Flambeau carefully folded the shirt and placed in neatly on the floor, clearly intending to retrieve it later, and set about unbuckling his boots. He couldn’t help but stare at the soft exposed flesh, the dark hair on his chest, the way his chest heaved as he breathed, the way soft freckles dappled his shoulder like stars in a brilliant sky, and the contrast of a scar, a bullet wound just below this perfect shoulder. He reached a hand out to touch it, then thought better of it and pulled his hand back.

Flambeau’s head suddenly snapped up, meeting his eyes. Father Brown instantly turned his head away, ashamed to have been caught staring, like a lovesick schoolgirl.

“Father?”

He didn’t look round. He resisted the urge to look up even as he felt the weight of someone climbing on top of him, straddling him, pushing him gently into the hard mattress. A hand cupped his cheek, gently turning his head to face him again. He stubbornly closed his eyes.

“Father. Look at me.”

Father Brown mentally cursed Flambeau for being so very _difficult_ to say no to sometimes. He opened his eyes once more, to see him gazing at him, eyes flickering over his face, mouth creeping into a smile.

“It’s alright to _look at me_ , Father. Your God won’t smite you for _looking_.”

Brown raised an eyebrow at him, lifting himself into his elbows, bringing their faces startlingly close once more. “It wasn’t God’s judgement I was afraid of, Flambeau,” he muttered, as calmly as he could muster.

Flambeau’s smile widened into a vaguely disbelieving grin. “You utterly ridiculous pious old fool,” he said, with no real heat behind the words. “I am _literally_ currently sitting astride you wearing nought but a highly uncomfortable starched pair of trousers. I would’ve thought it was perfectly clear that _I_ don’t mind you looking at me.”

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Father Brown had the good grace to look at least a little embarrassed. “And you don’t mind that I’ve been…” How had he put it? “… _Watching_ you?”

Flambeau gave a short, disbelieving laugh, took Father Brown’s face in both hands, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, before resting his own forehead against his. “I _like_ you watching me, Father,” he murmured. “I don’t know how much more plainly I can say it. A man as clever and observant as yourself, I really would’ve thought you’d have noticed that I’ve been watching you too.”

“Oh.” Father Brown wasn’t quite sure how to process this new information. Cautiously, their foreheads still touching, he shifted his weight to one elbow, and placed the other hand back on Flambeau’s chest, marvelling at the way his breath hitched at the contact, the way he leant into the touch, the effect he was having on the thief. It was wonderful, and beautiful, and impossible. It made no sense, and couldn’t possibly last, but the Father didn’t want it to end for anything. Once again, he brushed his fingertips experimentally over a nipple, wondering at the way Flambeau gasped sharply and arched his back.

“ _Father_ ,” Flambeau hissed.

Suddenly, without warning, Father Brown sighed, wrapped both arms around Flambeau, and sank back into the mattress, pulling Flambeau flat on top of him. Flambeau made a noise of surprised delight, but before he could make another comment, the Father brought a hand up to cup the back of his thief’s neck and pulled him into a kiss. Father Brown would have been the first to admit he was woefully out of practice and that the kiss was clumsy, nervous, and messy, but it was gratefully received. The other man moaned into his mouth, wound his own hand behind the Father's neck, and almost seemingly involuntarily bucked his hips, rubbing the growing bulge in his trousers against Father Brown in a most distracting way.

The priest gasped, a hand trailing down Flambeau’s back and coming to rest on his arse, giving it a small rub and an experimental gentle squeeze. Flambeau squirmed, vaguely cat-like, buried his face in Father Brown’s chest, and _whined,_ a quiet plaintive noise that the Father would never have thought the thief capable of making and that he knew the thief would vehemently deny making, if later asked.

“…You alright?” he asked, cautiously.

Flambeau propped himself up on Father Brown’s chest. He was breathless; his hair was a mess, his face was flushed, and his eyes were wild with arousal. “ _Perfectly fine, thank you_ ,” he lied shamelessly, through gritted teeth.

Father Brown chuckled fondly, and lazily traced a finger along Flambeau’s tightly clenched jaw, marvelling at the fact he was allowed to do so. “You are so lovely,” he murmured, before he could stop himself.

Flambeau made a strangled sort of noise and buried his face in the Father’s chest again. “Alright,” he mumbled indistinctly into it. “Alright. Alright. Alright.”

Father Brown began to suspect that he wasn’t, in fact, alright.

“Alright.” Flambeau half slithered off Brown as best he could onto the bed next to him, their legs still entangled. “Move over.” Father Brown obediently wriggled up as much as the tiny bed would allow. Flambeau smiled softly, not making eye contact, and began unbuttoning Father Brown’s shirt.

“Flambeau?” Father Brown did his best to keep his voice as steady as possible, but he could not stop it shaking, just a little.

“Yes?” Flambeau still didn’t look up, as though the shirt buttons required his full undivided attention.

Father Brown floundered for what exactly to say. He shivered as his shirt fell open, a chill breeze from somewhere hitting his chest. “Weren’t you supposed to be warming me up? Isn’t this a little counter-productive?”

Flambeau grinned to himself, eyes still not meeting his. “Body heat is best shared skin to skin, Father. Everyone knows that.” He slipped a hand inside the priest’s open shirt, nimble fingertips tracing the bare skin he found there.

Father Brown gasped at the touch, trembling.

Flambeau looked up at last, concern etched across his features. “Unless you want me to stop?” he asked. His voice was unbelievably, soft, gentle, reassuring, as though he were calming a skittish horse in danger of bolting. “I promise you, if you ask me to stop, I will stop. And if you want me to leave, I will leave.”

“No!” He knew his response had been too quick, too panicked, but he also knew that right now he wanted nothing less than for his thief ( _My thief?_ ) to leave, to act like this never happened, no matter how easy that would be. “Please,” he continued, helplessly. “I want- I need-” Why had words become so infuriatingly hard?

Luckily, the man beside him, the very man who was the cause of this turmoil, was the one man who, for better or for worse, seemed to understand him the best. “Shhhhh,” he said, placing his palm flat over the priest’s heart. “I know.” And with that, he pressed a kiss to Father Brown’s chest. He pressed dozens of gentle, fluttering kisses to his chest, his belly, his shoulders, as he slowly removed the man’s shirt, carefully reaching behind him and placing it on the floor.

While his head was turned, Father Brown caught hold of a stray hand resting on his chest, and held it delicately between his own, as though it were as soft and fragile as a newborn bird, and gazed at it in wonder. Flambeau looked back at him, head tilted quizzically in silent question.

“You’ve got such beautiful hands, Flambeau,” Father Brown murmured, softly caressing the younger man’s palm with his own calloused thumb. “Soft. And slender. Artist’s hands.”

Flambeau smiled. “Thief’s hands,” he corrected. “Sinner’s hands.” He looked the Father in the eye. “Do you find my sin beautiful, Father?” he whispered.

“…Perhaps.”

Flambeau huffed a small enigmatic laugh, brought the priest’s fingers to his own lips in a gentle kiss, then freed his hand and resumed his trail of kisses and caresses down Father Brown’s torso, moving ever lower. Father Brown melted into the touch, letting himself give into the stirring in his chest. To say nothing of the stirring somewhere lower down.

As though reading his thoughts, Flambeau paused, hummed softly, and cautiously rubbed at Father Brown’s crotch through his trousers.

The result was electric. Father Brown jolted, gave a shuddering gasp, and grasped in the vague direction of Flambeau, his hand floundering uselessly in the air. Flambeau propped himself up one elbow to look at him, his other hand resting on the Father’s inner thigh.

“How long has it been, Father?” he murmured. “Since someone touched you?”

“Hm,” Father Brown said, is head reeling, suddenly breathless. “So long. Too long. Flambeau-”

Flambeau began to rub soothing circles into the Father’s thigh. “Do you want me to touch you, Father?”

Father Brown made a kind of strained whimper, and his floundering hand finally found Flambeau’s face, cupping it. Flambeau turned his head to softly nuzzle at it.

“Use your words, Father,” he whispered into the shaking hand, pressing a light kiss into his palm.

“ _Yes_ , Flambeau. _Please_ ,” Father Brown managed to gasp out, at last.

With a smile and another kiss to the trembling palm, Flambeau ran his hand up Father Brown’s thigh, slowly stroking his length through his trousers once more.

Father Brown’s usually keen and attentive mind was like mush. He was barely even aware of where they were or why anymore, and only a small, niggling, easily ignored voice in the back of his head still told him that he shouldn’t be doing this, that he was weak for giving in so easily. It didn’t matter now. The enigmatic Frenchman beside him occupied every one of his thoughts. _“Hercule,”_ he hissed.

Flambeau’s head snapped up as though he had been shocked. “Oh god, say that again,” he said, voice guttural, his own arousal obvious.

“…Hercule.”

Flambeau let out a sigh. “Hmm,” he whispered, seemingly more to himself than anything. “I like that.”

Father Brown made a mental note to definitely say it more often, if it would make his thief make such pleased noises.

Flambeau fumbled with the Father’s belt, as though he couldn’t get the trousers and underwear off fast enough. The small bed creaked alarmingly, and Father Brown was suddenly very thankful for the thick stone walls. This really would be rather difficult to explain to Canon Fox. All thoughts of Canon Fox, however, were soon pushed out of his head completely, when his trousers and underwear found themselves joining his shirt on the floor, and he found himself naked and exposed before his thief.

He shivered, but not from the cold breeze around his newly exposed privates. Flambeau hummed a soft pleased sound and ran his fingertips up the priest’s engorged cock, sending jolts of electricity through his body.

Father Brown let out a ragged gasp. “Hercule, _please_ ,” he all but whined, his hips bucking upwards wildly.

Flambeau huffed a small breathless laugh. “Well when you ask me so _sweetly_ , Father, who am I to refuse?” And with that he wrapped his slender fingers around the other man’s cock and began to stroke, softly, rhythmically.

“Oh Hercule, _yes_ ,” Father Brown breathed, lost in his own pleasure. The sensation of another man’s hand touching him like this was simultaneously strange and wonderfully familiar, so very wrong and yet so incredibly right. He knew how his own hand felt around his cock, of course. He had spent a handful of quiet, guilt-ridden moments pleasuring himself while lying alone in the middle of the night in recent years, praying furiously afterwards. Once or twice he had even done so while thinking of Flambeau, imagining it was his hand stroking him, whispering filthy things into his ear, and had felt like the worst kind of pervert afterwards, stewing in his own guilt for even thinking such things. To have the real thing right here, the weight and warmth of his body pressed against his side, his clever hands stroking him, was both everything he’d dreamed of and nothing he could ever possibly have imagined.

He was brought out of his reverie by a clumsy breathless kiss being pressed to his mouth. “Don’t you dare feel guilty for this,” whispered Flambeau, as though he had been reading his thoughts. “I don’t care what your God says. You deserve this. You’ve earned this.”

Father Brown wrapped an arm around his thief ( _My thief_ , he thought, madly, _My thief, **mine**_ ), who gave a grateful huff and wriggled impossibly closer, still stroking the Father’s cock, and frantically, _desperately_ kissing him whenever he could catch his mouth.

 _He needs this just as much as I do,_ Father Brown realised with a jolt. _He’s wanted this just as much as I have._ The revelation sent him spiralling, wondering, marvelling. It seemed impossible, but the evidence was right before him, in the hot, breathless, surprisingly needy form of Hercule Flambeau, who was, the Father realised with another, guiltier jolt, rutting against him in rhythm with his own strokes, the hard bulge in his trousers rubbing against Brown’s side. _The poor thing,_ Father Brown thought. _He’s been focusing all his energy on what **I** want and what **I** need, and I didn’t even notice how much he needs this too._

“Flambeau?” he said, cautiously, breathlessly, in between kisses. “Hercule?”

“Hm?” Flambeau looked him dead in the eye and gave a long, slow stroke, smirking softly at the way Father Brown gasped and rocked into the touch.

“ _Hercule_ ,” he breathed, before forcing himself to focus once more. “Hercule,” he asked, nervously, his mouth dry. “Can I touch you?”

Flambeau went alarmingly quiet and still in the priest’s arms, his eyes wide, his lips parted. He stopped his stroking, and Father Brown swallowed down a whimper of protest. He needed to focus.

“…You’re sure?” Flambeau’s voice was uncharacteristically raw and vulnerable, the mask of confidence and bravado gone, and it only served to further Father Brown’s resolve.

“Yes,” he said. “Please. I’d like to.” He thought a moment, then added: “If you want me to?”

Flambeau made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Oh _god_ yes,” he whispered.

In an instant the two men were fumbling with Flambeau’s trousers, impatiently tugging at them until they joined the rest of the man’s clothes on the cold flagstone floor. The sight of Hercule Flambeau naked and trembling beside him, his erection standing proud against his soft belly, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, his face gazing at him with a striking intensity, as though there was nothing else he would rather look at, was almost too much for Father Brown. _Oh Lord,_ he thought. _Forgive me. Have mercy on me. But If I go to Hell for this, I do believe it will have been worth it._

“You really are so lovely,” he murmured, tenderly massaging Flambeau’s balls with one hand, before wrapping his hand around the other man’s cock, giving a soft stroke.

Flambeau let out a great shuddering gasp, his back arching, and he clung wildly to Father Brown’s arm, for fear of falling off the narrow little bed. “Have you done this before?” he gasped out, almost accusingly.

“Ah. Well. Not for an _awfully_ long time, you understand,” came Father Brown’s sheepish reply.

Flambeau boggled at him as though he’d just admitted to being the pope.

“I wasn’t _born_ a priest, you know,” Father Brown muttered, not making eye contact. “We all did wild things we might later regret during the war, Flambeau.”

“But-” Flambeau continued to stare, but his astonishment slowly morphed into a smile. “You, _mon cher prêtre_ , are full of surprises. But right now, all I care about is _would you please do that again?_ ”

Father Brown smiled, pressed a kiss to Flambeau’s forehead, and resumed rhythmically pumping, and, feeling brave, caught Flambeau’s hand with his other hand and gently guided it back to his own cock in silent request.

Holding each other close on the rickety narrow bed in the bleak cold room, saying nothing with words but attempting to say a thousand words with each kiss shared, the two men stroked each other to climax. Father Brown climaxed first; gasping, shuddering, clinging to his thief, his seed spilling over both of them. He waited for the wave of guilt and shame that usually followed when this happened alone, but it was strangely absent, chased away by the warm figure pressed against him, head buried in the crook of his neck, murmuring words of gentle reassurance into his chest in French.

Father Brown had had the presence of mind to continue stroking Flambeau’s cock even through his own orgasm, his other arm wrapped around Flambeau’s back, the fingers of his other hand entangled in his hair. The thought struck him that he never would’ve taken Hercule Flambeau has someone who liked to be cuddled, but the surprise was a pleasant one. The Frenchman felt so utterly _right_ in his arms that he wasn’t sure how he’d lived so long without him there, and how he could ever bear to let him go.

Father Brown continued to hold him as Flambeau’s own orgasm hit. “ _Father_ ,” Flambeau gasped out, then a single strategic “Fuck”, as semen splattered both their chests.

The two men laid side by side for a moment in comfortable silence, lazily holding each other, lost in their own racing thoughts, before Father Brown spoke once more.

“You know,” said he, sleepily. “You don’t have to go to such extreme lengths every time you want to see me. You could just pop round for tea and cakes one afternoon. No crime necessary.”

Flambeau chuckled into his shoulder. “Come now, Father. Where would the fun in that be?” he said with a smile, but as he propped himself up on one elbow to press a kiss to the Father’s lips, he whispered quietly into his ear, quietly enough that he could later deny having said anything: _“I’ll bear that in mind.”_

They shared a slow, lazy, kiss, before a distant thud elsewhere in the bishop’s palace broke them out of their trance, reminding them both of where they were, and why.

“Speaking of crime, Father,” said Flambeau, pressing one last chaste kiss to the priest’s lips before breaking away and sitting up, swinging his feet onto the floor. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I have a crown to steal.”

Father Brown watched with a strange twinge of sadness as Flambeau gathered together his clothes and started to dress, barely even glancing at the priest. Flambeau pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his trousers and used it to wipe himself clean as best he could, before handing it to Father Brown.

Father Brown mumbled a barely audible “thank you”, but instead of cleaning himself, continued to stare at the man currently buttoning up his shirt with his back to him. Brown absentmindedly ran a thumb over the embroidered F on the embarrassingly sticky handkerchief as he stared, lost in thought.

“Next time, Father,” said Flambeau, grunting as he laced up his boots. “We are doing this somewhere warmer and more comfortable. And preferably somewhere with alcohol. I know you Catholics like to punish yourselves, but I on the other hand am incurably fond of the finer luxuries in life.”

“Next time?” Father Brown said, unable to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice or the soft smile off his face.

Flambeau spun to look at him in vague surprise. “Of course!” he said. “Unless you thought it was as horrible as all that.”

“No!” said Father Brown, a little too quickly. He felt a faint blush warm his cheeks. “No, that would be- I look forward to it.”

Flambeau smiled, warmly. He straightened his hair with his fingers, turned to leave, then turned back to face the Father one more time.

“À bientôt, Father,” he said, gave another roguish wink, and blew a kiss.

And with that, he was gone, leaving one blinking and bewildered clergyman, still clutching the sticky handkerchief. He stared at the embroidered F that decorated it, and sighed.

There was always next time.


End file.
